


darkness got a hold on me

by evewithanapple



Category: The Black Tapes Podcast
Genre: Gen, Hallucinations, Insomnia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-25 08:43:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12527444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evewithanapple/pseuds/evewithanapple
Summary: Alex, a dark room, and a tape recorder.





	darkness got a hold on me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ninj](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ninj/gifts).



The clock is blinking 3:44 when Alex looks at it. The last time she looked, it was 3:39. She’d hoped it had been longer; it _felt_ like it had been longer. Every time she closes her eyes, she’s agonizingly aware of the seconds ticking past, each one gritting around the corners of her eyelids like sand. Sleep, as per usual, is elusive; she thinks she may have slept sometime between midnight and three, but she’s not sure. She remembers dreaming, but maybe they were only vivid daydreams. She remembers wispy black forms flitting back and forth, but couldn’t she have imagined that? Wouldn’t she have? Her daytime life has provided ample fuel for visions of inscrutable spirits. There’s no reason to believe that they haven’t invaded the twilight hours between wakefulness and sleep.

Her hand hovers over the bedside table, where her recorder is sitting. She knows she shouldn’t use it like this – it would undoubtedly trouble Dr. Bernier, who would respond by pursing her lips and saying _I think you need to separate your life and your work, Alex_. Alex knows self-expression is encouraged in therapy, but something in her still balks at laughing in Dr. Bernier’s face at the suggestion: does she _really_ think any kind of barrier remains between the Alex of Pacific Northwest Studios and the Alex of her apartment? That any such barrier wasn’t eroded years ago, even before Strand and the black tapes came into her life? Maybe going to therapy was a mistake in the first place: you can only recover as much as you’re willing to. Alex isn’t so sure she’s willing to.

She presses her thumb down against the “play” button, and a hiss of recorded air fills the room. There’s a pause, a clicking noise, and then Dr. Strand’s voice fills the room. “Arlene Dirks had a history of mental disturbances.”

Alex’s voice floats out, disembodied and distorted by the tape. “And you think that makes her less credible in this case?”

“There are various mental illnesses that often manifest in delusions of the supernatural.” His voice is flat, as always, but with an undercurrent of pleasure; he enjoys these opportunities to hold forth on his pet topics. “The most common delusional disorder in popular culture is schizophrenia, but it’s not unique in its ability to cause auditory or visual hallucinations. Patients who are experiencing a manic episode or even serious depression may enter into a psychotic state that includes delusions, and disorders such as OCD can cause psychosomatic symptoms-”’

Alex’s voice cuts across his on the tape. “Did she have any of those?”

“Her medical records were not made available to me,” Strand says, a slight edge of irritation in his tone. Alex smiles to herself. Conversations with Strand often feel like a game of verbal ping-pong, always lunging and weaving to catch his latest argument and knock it back towards him. Truth be told, it’s a big part of why she’s pursued his story for so long. Interviewing Strand feels like pulling teeth more often than not, but then there are these moments when she manages to coax him into an argument, and they feel like they’re worth their weight in gold.

She moves her thumb back over to the fast-forward button and clicks it, listening to the tape whirr for a few seconds before pressing play. Her own voice spills out into the room. “-poltergeist activity surrounding the Dirks family-”

She’s interrupted by a burst of static, and frowns. Where had that come from? The tape was new, and there was nothing in the studio to create interference like this. She rewinds a little, then presses play again.

“Hello, Alex.”

She shoots bolt upright in bed, sleepiness vanished in a second, like she’d taken a pail of cold water to the face. She’s heard that voice. She _knows_ that voice. The owner of that voice is – or should be – locked up in the Three River State Hospital, with no way of accessing or recording herself on her tapes. Shakily, she rewinds a bit further, then presses play. Strand’s voice rolls out at her. “-intrusive thoughts of a violent nature-”

He’s interrupted by another burst of static. She jams her thumb down against the fast-forward button, but it does nothing: the static continues to crackle, like white noise out of a TV set. It’s mixed in with a horrible scraping sound, like nails on a chalkboard – almost like shrieks. She gives up and takes her finger off the button, wrapping her blankets around her shoulders with two shaking hands. The static just keeps on crackling. In the quiet of her apartment, it’s nearly deafening. She wants to stick her head under the pillow, but she’s afraid to close her eyes, afraid of what might come creeping up on her if she’s not looking.

The voice from before breaks through the static. “He’s lying to you, you know.”

Alex licks her lips and says nothing.

“You _do_ know, don’t you?” The voice – Simon Reese, it’s Simon Reese’s voice, Simon Reese in her apartment, on her tape recorder – sounds amused. “You’ve known it for months. He’s been leading you around by the nose, keeping all the important information to himself. How much longer are you going to put up with it?”

The noise Alex’s teeth are making clacking together are nearly as loud as the tape. She pulls her knees up against her chest, rocking back and forth.

"Well, you know where to find me." Simon still sounds amused. Alex doesn't know what, precisely, he's laughing at, but she's certain it can't be benign. "If you ever want some real answers." And then the tape clicks, the play/pause button popping up, and the noise of the rolling spools suddenly stops.

Alex slowly unclenches her hand from around the blanket, reaches out for the tape recorder, then stops. She doesn't want to listen anymore. She wants to call Three Rivers, find out where Simon Reese is and what he's doing, if he's somehow managed to get access to -

 _To what?_ she silently asks herself. To her dictaphone, hundreds of miles away from where he's being kept? To a piece of machinery that can only be used by the person holding it in their hand? It's not like his voice turned up on one of her audio recording programs on the computer; this is a decades-old dictaphone, heavy as a brick and about as technologically advanced. It's not like he could have hacked it.

She looks at her nightstand, where the pin-sized light of her phone is winking green at her. She could call Strand. Or Nic. Or even her mother. But none of them seem like good options: Strand would be annoyed at the late call, probably brush her off and hang up - if he didn't stop to question her sanity first. Nic would be concerned, but what could he do? Drive over and sleep on her couch to try and banish the phantom threat of a tape recording? And her mother is the worst choice of all: all she can do is worry, and Alex doesn't want another person in her life thinking she's losing her mind. Even if she is.

Shakily, she extends one finger and hits rewind, then play. Strand's voice fills the room, just as it had before. The sound is clear, no static. "If the patient is predisposed to intrusive thoughts of a violent nature, and is exposed to something that triggers these thoughts - a horror movie, perhaps - it could easily cause further hallucinations, especially if the patient is also self-medicating . . ."

She huffs out a humourless laugh as she clicks the tape off again. Self-medication is starting to sound like a good idea; at least it might help her sleep, even if it wouldn't keep the ghosts in the machine at bay. But no, she's not going down that road. Her productivity at work has already run headfirst into her insomnia, and there's no need to add drug-induced blackouts to the mix. She pulls her hand back inside the shelter of her blanket, considering.

She won't talk about this at work, she decided. Not to Nic, not to Strand, not to anobody. There's no proof it even happened - the cassette is as it was before, with no imprint of Simon Reese's voice on the tape. Strand would say she dreamed it. Nic might not say it out loud, but he'd absolutely think it. And she'd lose another little shred of her credibility, as it peels away from her bit by bit. Simon can't do that to her. She won't let him.

She lies back down, blankets pulled up under her chin, and stares out into the dark. She doesn't sleep any more that night.


End file.
